Patrick, Darling
by JessieJay13
Summary: Patrick, darling, since you left me I am undone. Mother loves you. God save my son!" Rating subject to change, and not exactly sure what genres it should be yet...


CHAPTER 1

Patrick let his arms droop momentarily, feeling the tense muscles in his shoulder sting as they tried to relax. He dragged the back of his hand across his brow, trying unsuccessfully to wipe away the sweat that was accumulated there beneath the rim of his hat. He rolled his shoulders, grimacing, and then swung one of the heavy newspapers up over his head again, yelling, "Papes! Getcha papes today!" None of the folks flooding past him in the square paid him any attention. It didn't surprise him. No one seemed to be buying lately, and most of them passed him by with hardly a passing glance, just like every day.

He felt like the day had already been much too long, as if the sun should've set hours ago, even though it had yet to reach its zenith. The days seemed to be getting longer and longer, even as he urged them to shorten. What used to be a very entertaining way to make a living had recently become a dull and difficult chore with little reward. He was just barely getting enough to eat, going hungry every other night, and lately he was contemplating _literally_ "eating" the papers he didn't sell.

His stomach grumbled angrily—he hadn't eaten since lunch of the previous day—and he sighed. He pulled off his hat and tried again to dry his forehead, this time on his sleeve. He ran his fingers through his hair, which was sticking to his head in an uncomfortable sort of way. He pulled his hat back on and straightened his vest. "Papes?" he called out again, but no one so much as looked his way. This made his blood boil even more than the hot sun; the headlines may not have been hot, but didn't anyone care about the Newsies anymore? Did anyone even realize that they needed to eat too?

"Come on, people!" he yelled in frustration at a group of elderly men who were passing nearby. "Don'tcha wanna know what's goin' on? What's happenin' outside your own front door?" The men looked affronted and hurried off quickly. Patrick groaned in exasperation and turned to try another, more densely populated section of the square, hoping to have better luck.

He spent a few more minutes hawking headlines that no one seemed to care about at all, waving the papers in the face of every person that got too close. Before long, he saw a young lady passing nearby. She looked to be wealthy, in a flowing yellow dress with her long dark curls piled up under a matching bonnet. She, like the rest, didn't pay him much attention until he leapt out in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. She only looked slightly indignant as he waved a paper at her.

"Miss, would you like to buy a newspaper?" he asked, trying his best to sound polite and classy.

"No, thank you," she said quickly, trying to side-step him. He mimicked her, staying in her path. "I said 'no, thank you'," she repeated, more firmly.

"But don'tcha wanna know what's goin' on in the world?" he asked, holding a paper out to her. "What's happening around us? There are things going on that no one knows about, because people don't read the newspaper anymore!"

The girl rolled her eyes impatiently and pushed past him. In desperation, he caught her by the wrist, pulling her to a stop. She turned back to him, either to tell him to unhand her or possibly to slap him, but he interrupted her.

"Listen to me! This is my job, my livelihood. I may need money, but I'm not going to lie to you or anyone else to sell these," he said slowly, looking her directly in the eye. "I'm not a cripple, I don't have some obscure, incurable disease, and I don't have any children at home or younger siblings to feed. I'm just a poor young man trying to stay afloat in a changing world that keeps trying to leave us Newsies behind." He definitely had her attention. She was staring at him curiously and had yet to pull her arm from his grip.

"Alright," she said slowly after a moment. "Alright, I'll take five papers." Patrick released her wrist and gaped at her as she extracted a shiny new dime from a small pocket. "I'm sure Mother, Father, Amber and Amelia will all want to know what's going on in the world as well," she assured him. He took the dime and handed her five of his twelve papers. She curtsied to him and said, "Good day," before heading off again. He watched her go for a moment before hoisting another paper above his head with a sigh.

"Papes! Getcha papes!"

***

Patrick sold one more paper the rest of the day. He only gave up on selling the last six when the candles began to flicker to life in the windows of the surrounding houses. He sighed, dropping down to sit exhaustedly on the curb. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his sweat-plastered hair. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Jack.

"Rough day, Runaway?" he asked, sitting down next to him.

"You could say that again," Patrick said.

"How many?"

"Six."

"Not bad. Better than a lot. Crutchy only sold three, and he really _is_ a crip. No one believes him anymore, though. Really kinda sad," Jack said. "I only bought ten, and I sold seven of 'em, so here," he added, handing Patrick a penny. "I'll take one off your hands. Then we both sold more than halfa what we bought."

"You're a nice guy, Cowboy," Patrick said, pocketing the penny and tossing him a paper in return. "It's gettin' dark. Better turn in. Gonna hafta be up early to sell enough papes to eat tomorrow night."

"Yeah. Story of our lives."

***

Patrick pushed open the door to his humble abode, which squeaked loudly on rusty and reluctant hinges, and set the cold biscuit and piece of ham he had bought for dinner on the rickety table by the door. He threw the now-outdated newspapers onto the ever-growing pile in the corner. Five of them settled on the top, but one rolled down the side of the pyramid and spun under his cot. Patrick sighed, contemplated leaving it there, and then shook his head; if he couldn't have a real house, his room would at least be tidy. He dropped to his knees and reached under the cot, groping around to find the stray paper. He felt his fingers connect with it, but it skittered even farther away. He heard the door open noisily and backed out from under the bed to see Crutchy trying to fit his crutches through the narrow door.

"Hey, Crutchy," Patrick said, hurrying to help. Once inside, Crutchy smiled broadly in greeting. Patrick smiled back, always in awe of Crutchy's perpetual good attitude. "I hear you didn't do so hot today. How many did you sell?" he asked as he lit a small lamp with a match from the book he had found in the street the day before.

"Three of my dozen," Crutchy said, his smile faltering a little. "Guess I'll be eatin' papes for real tonight." Patrick fished in his pocket and pulled out the penny Jack had given him.

"Here," he said. "I'll buy one off you. I didn't even earn that penny anyway; Cowboy bought one-a mine. And you need to eat more. You're looking kinda scrawny nowadays," he added jokingly, punching his friend in the arm. Crutchy laughed appreciatively. "So, what'd you drop in for?"

"Well," he replied, looking a little embarrassed. "I was kinda wonderin'…You know how people have stopped buying from me 'cause they think I'm just fakin' being a crip?" Patrick nodded sympathetically. "Well, I was just thinking…maybe if I learned to get around better without the crutches, people would start buying from me again. D'you think it would work?"

Patrick thought for a moment, folding his arms over his chest and looking Crutchy over. "Maybe. Couldn't hurt to give it a shot, anyway. Might as well try."

"Great! Would you…would you be able to help me?" he asked, looking self-conscious again.

"Sure, Crutch. I'd be glad to help." They shook hands on it, Crutchy beaming eagerly. "Sounds good. See you tomorrow, buddy."

"G'night."

He assisted Crutchy's passage back through the door and closed it behind him, once again glancing dejectedly at the pile of newspapers in the corner. He sighed and picked up his dinner, munching it thoughtfully as he pulled off his shirt. He folded the sweaty, patched shirt and placed it and his hat on the table. He finished his food and sat down on the musty cot, kicking his shoes off. He laid down and looked up at the ceiling for a while. For some reason, the look that girl had given him before she bought the papes kept coming back to his mind and he found himself wondering what that look had meant, what she must have been thinking. He sighed, rolled over and blew out the candle.


End file.
